


30 Minutes After Midnight

by MachaSWicket



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  A <a href="http://www.wolverineandrogue.com/big30.php">WRFA Big 3-0 challengefic</a>:  Logan's not a terribly patient man.</p><p>ORIGINALLY POSTED:  2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	30 Minutes After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: Through X2.
> 
> RATING: R. Logan has a pottymouth.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not mine. 
> 
> THANKS: To Em and Lu for the insta-beta. :) To Devil Doll, Diebin, Diane, and all the lovely [WRFA](http://www.wolverineandrogue.com/wrfa/) people -- your archive rocks!

Ten minutes late.

Logan paced in small circles near the back of the bar, cursing himself for a fool.

She'd _sworn_ she'd meet him at midnight. She'd promised she would get the injured kids on the Blackbird and then get her ass in a car.

But she wasn't here, and Logan decided, five hours after the fact, that he should've gone with Rogue, and screw the obnoxious teenagers he'd shepherded over the border. All evidence to the contrary, Jubilee had a good head on her shoulders; she could've been trusted to lead the others to safety, and then Logan could've helped Rogue with the kids and with her escape from the Mansion.

But Scott, that uptight prick, had made Logan promise, had made them _all_ promise to stick to the plan. Not even Logan could deny Scott his dying wish. 

The professor was seriously injured and Logan knew -- _knew_ \-- that Scott's admonition was necessary. There was, after all, a reason they'd come up with the contingency plan in the first place: A scenario just like this, where the MRA gave the government all the excuse it needed to start mutant roundups at Xavier's School for the Gifted. Scott and the professor had planned things perfectly -- Logan would take the older kids in one of the SUVs, by far the riskier route, and everyone else would be responsible for getting the kids on the plane.

Except that Scott was dead and Kurt was in Europe and the professor was unconscious, which left the evacuation to Storm and Rogue. 

Fuck.

The crooked door to the bar swung open and Logan froze, his gaze going immediately to the new arrival. Not Rogue.

"Dammit," he muttered, giving the wall a vicious punch as he paced past.

Logan wasn't sure how, but he would find a way to blame this shit on Magneto and Mystique. Her ill-fated charade as Senator Kelly and his grandiose schemes had, after all, provided the government with all the "evidence" it needed to convince the people that mutants were dangerous. So the blame actually could be laid at Magneto's and Mystique's door. And when he had time, Logan would cheerfully kill them.

If Rogue was hurt or-- or-- Well, then he'd kill them slow.

No, he told himself. She's fine. 

Because Logan had kept an eager eye on the rather incongruous flatscreen TV behind the bar, and CNN had nothing on the Blackbird or the school. And if Storm got the professor safely aboard and Rogue got the kids on board and the jet got away... Well, it stood to reason that Rogue would've had time to grab a car and get gone.

Logan pushed aside the horrific image of Rogue, left alone at the mansion, holding off a whole platoon of men as Storm flew the jet safely away. Because Rogue was a lot of things, but cowardly wasn't one of them, and he knew she would do something as incredibly brave and unforgivably stupid as that.

He checked his watch again. Quarter past and she was supposed to be here by midnight.

Logan dug the comm. link out of his jacket pocket and flipped it on. If he were a praying man, he'd be on his knees pleading for a signal from her. He growled, loud and desperate, when the readout flashed "0 MESSAGES" up at him.

He fought the nearly overpowering urge to hurl the useless piece of plastic at the wall just to watch it shatter. He twitched with the need for action. Turning suddenly, he stalked to the bar and slapped down a handful of bills. "Whiskey, neat," he barked.

Logan tossed it back and savored the burn. "Another."

The alcohol did nothing to slow his panicked heart rate, and Logan resumed his pacing. Waiting was a fucking nightmare. He was a man of action, and he'd go batshit crazy if he had to wait around here much longer. Another check of the time; she was twenty damn minutes late, and she hadn't called. Goddamnit.

How could he have been so stupid as to agree to this plan? Storm could've handled the injured professor and all the kids, and then Rogue could've come with him. Not that there'd been any room in the SUV, but they could've stashed one of the smaller teens onto the Blackbird, and fuck the weight limit anyway.

(Which had actually been his response months ago when Storm explained that Rogue might be one person too many if they resorted to a full-scale evacuation. Tonight, with riot-geared police at the gates, they'd had no choice but to evacuate.)

What if Rogue had made it to the garage and been trapped? What if they shot out the tires on her car? What if they'd captured her and were sending her to one of those fucking labs? What if--?

"No," he muttered aloud. He couldn't bring himself to even _think_ it. She was fine. She had to be fine, even though she was twenty- _five_ minutes late.

Logan flipped the comm. device on again. Still nothing. Which would be fine if things were going according to plan, because they were supposed to hold radio silence and meet up in Winnipeg. Jubes and the others were holed up in a hotel across the border, waiting for Logan and Rogue to catch up. Storm was supposed to fly out over international waters before heading north and then back inland over Canada. 

The lack of contact should mean everything was fine. 

Except that Rogue wasn't there yet.

Tactically speaking, the plan was as foolproof as they could make it. The kids were defenseless and needed to be away as quickly and as safely as possible, so they got seats on the plane. The teenagers were trained, at least a little, and Logan alone would be enough to protect them if things turned to shit. It all made perfect sense.

And Logan didn't give a flying fuck about sense if it ended up costing Rogue--

"Fuck." Logan checked his watch once more. 12:28. Two more goddamn minutes and that was all he could take. He'd make himself wait two more minutes, and then he was getting back in that souped-up SUV and driving hell bent for leather back to the damn Mansion. 

Logan slammed a ten onto the bar. "Another whiskey." He noticed with no small measure of fascination that his hands were trembling. Jesus, he'd never been this panicked about anyone in his entire life. 

Well, the Statue of liberty, but things had moved so fast, he hadn't really had the time to dwell on what he was doing. He'd just... done it. He sure as hell hadn't spent thirty agonizing minutes pacing in a fucking _bar_ doing _nothing_. 

He downed the whiskey, checked his watch -- 12:29 -- and muttered, "Fuck the extra minute." 

When he turned for the door, she was there, scanning the crowd until she found him. She smiled, but didn't move toward him, and Logan's blinding relief was short-lived. 

She was hurt. Fuck.

He was beside Rogue in seconds, inhaling deeply to get a sense of how badly she was injured. Relief and pain and irritation, all wrapped up in that scent that, to Logan, signified home.

"Not here," Rogue murmured, threading an arm through his, wrapping fingers tightly around his wrist.

"Right," he answered, supporting her out into the crisp autumn night. "Storm got the bird up?"

"Yeah," Rogue answered, her breathing too shallow and labored for Logan's tastes. She'd busted a rib, probably. He swallowed the questions and the panic; whatever had happened, she was here now.

"Over here," Logan urged, walking her across the gravel parking lot to a small, family-run motel. He keyed open the door and ushered her inside the room, flipping on the light with his free hand. The curtains were already drawn, and Logan did a quick scent check to make sure they were alone. Satisfied, he turned to Rogue. "Injuries?" he demanded, reaching for her jacket.

Rogue winced. "Wait. Wait." Slowly, she unclenched her hands and straightened her arms by her sides. Turning, she presented him with her back. "Can you--?"

"Of course." Logan eased the soft leather jacket from her shoulders, let it fall, unnoticed, to the flat, beige carpet. "Ribs?" he surmised, watching the way she moved with a critical eye.

Carefully, Rogue turned back to face him. "I don't know," she admitted with a rueful grin. "But breathing's a real bitch."

Ribs. Definitely fucked up her ribs. He nodded. "What else?"

"Well," she said, lifting a hand to his forearm, a move that was meant to be calming. Considering the situation, it was a blazing neon sign that he wasn't going to like what she had to say. "They shot out a tire and I sort of..." She tilted her head, shading her expression from his view.

Logan tensed. "You sort of _what_?"

"Drove into the gate," she said, all in a rush. "But I'm fine." Her fingers squeezed his forearm. "I got out and I got away."

"How?"

"Those hotwiring lessons of yours finally paid off." She lifted her chin and the playfulness in her expression calmed him more than any assurance she could give him. "Remind me to tell the professor that we owe the Barringtons a car."

He allowed himself half a smirk, in appreciation for her resourcefulness. Then he asked, "No one followed you?"

Rogue tsked at him. "You really think I would've come anywhere near you if there was anyone following me?"

"Had to ask, baby," he answered with a shrug that would have to suffice as an apology. Logan let himself relax, just a little bit. She'd managed to get herself here, and he could fix the rest. "Let me see," he ordered, reaching for her shirt.

Rogue shook her head. "Hurts to lift my arms, Logan, and you ain't cutting these clothes off me. Besides, you don't need to see that."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "How fast were you going when you hit the gate."

She actually shuffled her feet, staring at a point somewhere near his left elbow. "A decent speed," she temporized. She raised her voice and talked right over his growl. "I'm sure I'm bruised all to hell, Logan, and it'll just upset you unnecessarily."

Logan weighed his options. "No broken bones?"

"Well, I'm standing, aren't I?" she tossed back with a flash of irritation. When he just stared stonily back at her, she twisted her hands around, flexing her fingers and then making fists. "See? Just bruises." She frowned. "Except maybe my ribs."

Logan urged her toward the bed. "Broken bones hurt, darlin'," he warned.

"S'okay." She grimaced as she lowered herself to sit on the edge of mattress. "Motherfucker," she muttered, before giving him an approximation of a grin. "I'm tough."

"You are," he agreed, helping her lie back.

Eyes closed, Rogue breathed slowly for a few moments. "Okay," she said, reaching a hand up. "Lie down with me."

Best offer he'd had all night. Logan shrugged out of his leather jacket, tossed his denim jacket in the direction of the lone reading chair, tugged off his boots, and eased himself down next to her, trying not to jostle her. He rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand. "You ready?"

Rogue turned her head to watch him, and he could see the lines of tension in her face. She was in more pain that she'd let on, but she smiled for him and said, "Yeah."

Logan nodded and leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead, pulling away before her mutation could kick in. He repeated the motion, kissing her lips this time, wresting a small, appreciative moan from Rogue. Then he kissed her hard and let her gift suck him in.

He awoke to the sound of Rogue muttering, "Shit," through clenched teeth. Logan rolled his head on the pillow until he could see her. Her eyes were closed and tears leaked out from beneath her lids.

"You okay, baby?" he muttered, still recovering from her touch.

She huffed a laugh. "You weren't kidding about bones hurting."

Logan reached over and skimmed his fingertips over her abdomen. "You need any more?"

"No," she answered, relaxing her muscles one by one, just the way he'd taught her. He just lay there and enjoyed watching her, still lacking the energy to move. Rogue took a deep, experimental breath, then beamed at him. "Oh, that's so much better." Her expression shifted, and she rolled to her side to stare down at him. "You're okay?"

"I am now."

Rogue reached up and ran two bare fingers along his muttonchop. "You were worried."

He shrugged one shoulder. "You were late," he answered gruffly, wondering how much of his panic she'd picked up.

Her hand drifted down and landed on his chest, and her knee slid up against his thigh. "Hard to drive with cracked ribs," she answered. "I thought about breaking radio silence, but I knew I'd make it."

Logan smiled up at her, really smiled now that he let himself feel relieved. "You're tough."

Delighted, she laughed and rolled half on top of him. Not that he was complaining. "How long until we have to pick up the others?" she asked.

"Morning." Her eyebrows shot up. Okay, so he'd deviated slightly from the plan. They were _supposed_ to jump back in their respective cars, round up the teenagers, and head north. But he'd made an executive decision to get them a room for the night.

The smile that curved Rogue's lips was more intoxicating by far than that damn whiskey. "Smart man."

He considered her words, then shook his head. "Nah. I was stupid tonight. We need a better plan."

Rogue rested her hands on his chest and her chin on her hands. "Better plan? We got out without--" Her expression darkened. "I mean, Scott..." 

Logan hadn't dealt with that particular loss yet. There hadn't been time, during the attack, and then there'd been too much damn time in that godforsaken bar, but he'd been a little preoccupied with Rogue. Still, he'd seen Scott's last breath; he knew, intellectually, that Scott was dead, but... It wasn't real. Not yet. Logan lifted his arms and pulled Rogue closer.

She blinked a couple times. "But we did pretty good."

"We did," Logan agreed, smoothing a hand down her spine, just the way she liked. "But I'm not talking about the superhero squad. I'm talking about you and me."

Rogue looked uncertain, which wasn't all that surprising. They were together, but Logan didn't really do heart-to-hearts. "Okay," she said.

Logan wasn't a man of words, certainly not of flowery declarations. His thirty minutes in hell had clarified a lot of things for him, but he still didn't think he could find the words to tell her. Luckily, her latest dose of him probably conveyed most of it. So he reached up and stroked her hair back away from her face. "No more separate tasks," he explained. "If shit goes down, I want you with me. Period."

Rather belatedly, it occurred to him that his suggestion sounded more like a decree, and that wasn't how things worked with them. He cleared his throat and added, "Okay?"

"Yeah," Rogue answered, turning her head to press a swift kiss to the palm of his hand. "Okay." Silky locks of hair drifted down, shadowing her face, and Rogue gave him a familiar look. "Are you recovered?"

Logan arched an interested eyebrow. "Sure am, darlin'." He reached up and smoothed her hair back, tucking it carefully behind her ear.

"I'm sorry I was late, Logan," Rogue said softly. "I don't like to make you worry about me."

"It's okay," Logan replied, even as his hands instinctively tightened on her hips, holding her to him. She gave him a knowing smile and he pulled her closer. "Just don't do it again."

THE END


End file.
